Fifty Times
by USxArthurxKirklandxUK
Summary: What could have possibly possessed him to agree to America's stupid idea? A road-trip. Through all fifty of his God-Forsaken States. If he wasn't dead by the fifth, it would be a miracle... USUK, fluff and yaoi galore!
1. Rainy Day: London

**Fifty Times**

** Summary: America takes England on a "romantic" road trip through the fifty states of America… Series of interlocking one-shots. Humor, yaoi**

**A/N: If there are any suggestions/requests for a particular state, please leave them in a review or PM them to me! I've been to a very limited number of states myself (mainly ones around the Midwest), so I apologize if there are any inaccuracies. The point of this fanfiction, like Hetalia, is to poke fun at stereotypes and the like; I'm going to be making fun of my own two native states, as well, so I hope I don't offend anyone. Enjoy the Prologue to Fifty Times!**

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

**Prologue: Rainy Day (London)**

Rain pattered against the windowpanes, the steady rhythm soothing and comforting. England inhaled the sweet scent of his tea, letting the aroma take over his senses and calm him. he took a tentative sip, wincing slightly at the hot temperature before taking another minute sip. The porcelain warmed his hands, warm from the semi-boiling water he'd poured into it a few minutes before. The warm drink was a welcome combatant against the brisk English weather, and the gentleman sighed in pleasure as he took another sip. Nothing could ruin this day.

At least, that's what he thought until America burst in through his side door, not even bothering to knock. "Sheesh! It's raining cats and dogs out!" the taller blonde complained, shaking his head like a wet dog. He kicked off his shoes, and Arthur felt a sizeable eyebrow twitch in irritation as one landed on the floor he had just washed the night before, a good amount of grime smearing across the entryway.

"Is there a reason for this surprise visit?" England asked, attempting to reign in his anger. "And, in addition, what is the reason for getting mud all over my clean floors?"

America waved it off. "Awe, come on, England. It's just a little dirt. It never hurt anyone."

"Says the one who dirtied it. Now I have to clean. Again."

"That can wait until later!" America said, smiling widely with an odd glint in his eyes. England knew that look, and he didn't like it. This particular smile meant that the American had something planned—plotted, he corrected himself. England knew he had approximately twelve seconds to come up with some sort of excuse—the Queen was ill, the Prime Minister needed his help with a bill, he had a polo game with Prince William, anything. Before he could get the excuse past his lips, America killed his hopes of escaping whatever the Yankee had planned when his mouth opened again.

"Let's go on a road trip!"

"A what?" England asked, staring at him evenly. America could _not_ be serious.

"A road trip," America repeated brightly. "You know! Take a car, and just drive places!"

"I know what a _road trip_ is, you git," England replied testily. "But I'd like for you to properly explain _why _you would like to go on one."

"Because! You're always working, Arthur," America replied, switching to England's human name. Damn. England hated it when he did that. It made him want to give into his stupid plans all the more. "I already talked with your boss, and he said a break for you would be a good idea!"

England sputtered indignantly. "You did _what?_"

"Your boss is totally cool with it," America laughed. "And I saved up vacation time, too! So starting tomorrow, you have a whole year off! Isn't that awesome?"

Arthur could tell that his former colony was exceedingly excited about this. But he couldn't give in. Even if his boss said that this "road trip" was acceptable, he was still needed. He was the United Kingdom, after all…

"Please, England?"

"I can't! I have a job to do here, even if my boss says I can just go off on a holiday for a year!" England replied indignantly.

"Come on! We never spend any time together!" America protested.

"We do, too!" England retorted. "We see plenty of one another, America."

"Going back to your place after world meetings and sleeping together doesn't count, Arthur," America stated, shaking his head. "We're lovers, aren't we? So we should do _other _things that lovers do!"

"Th-that's—!" England cut off, feeling his entire face heat up in a brilliant red blush. "Don't be stupid, America! Just because we don't go around skipping and acting 'lovey-dovey' doesn't mean…"

Oh, God. No.

This was entirely unfair.

America was using the puppy eyes.

As soon as the "Puppy Eyes" technique came into play, England knew that he had already lost. He would not give in. He could not. He refused.

"…I'll pack my bags," England sighed. He resigned himself to the fate of being stuck in a small vehicle with America. For an extended period of time. Alone.

What a joy this "vacation" was going to be.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

A few hours later, England watched his beloved London grow smaller and smaller as they rose out of the airport. Eventually, it turned into a small toy town, rather than a metropolis. England looked at Big Ben forlornly, wondering just what America had in store for him. "Where are we going on this… 'road trip' of yours, anyway?" England asked irritably. It was the middle of America's winter, and he knew how the weather was in most of America's lands during this time of year. He hated the extreme cold of the Northern states.

"We're going all around the US of A," America explained briefly, not bothering to embellish. "To every one of the fifty states!"

England instantly regretted giving in. This "road trip" was going to be Hell.


	2. The City that Never Sleeps: New York

**Fifty Times**

**If anyone has any ideas for activities in a certain state or places they'd like England and America to visit, please let me know!**

**I was asked if I was going to include state-tans. I won't be including them. The way I see it, all places in America are parts of America himself (for example, Texas being his glasses, Nantucket being his hair curl, etc.). Since I have this mentality, I don't really use state-tans.**

**I also want to use this chance to point out that I have NEVER been to New York (though I would love to go). My sense of where things are is next to non-existent. O did attempt to look at maps, but honestly, there are so many streets there compared to where I live that I got lost even with bolded lines. Please enjoy, in any case, and if someone who knows New York (or any other city/state, really) is willing to help me correct any mistakes, please point them out for me and I will do my best to fix them as swiftly as possible!**

**Now, onto the first state of Fifty Times!**

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

**One: The City That Never Sleeps (New York)**

New York City: the city that never sleeps.

They mean it literally.

England growled in annoyance, smashing his pillow over his ears more firmly. The sounds of irate drivers blared in his ears, driving him to near madness. Outside the window, he could hear a loud group of men having a drunken argument. He stood up, beyond irritated, and threw the window open. "Oy, you lot! Some of us are trying to get some sleep here!" he yelled. A small group of homeless-looking men looked up at him. The next thing he knew, England's face was full of what he suspected was week-old yogurt. Lovely. The one on the far right had thrown it. He slammed the window shut, huffing in annoyance. What could have possibly possessed him into agreeing to this damned idea of America's? A road trip. Through all fifty of his God-forsaken states. If he wasn't dead by the fifth, it would be a miracle.

God, he missed London.

"You all right in there, Arthur?"

"No, I'm not 'all right', damn it all," England bit out. He pushed past America into the hallway, on his way to the kitchen. "I just received a face full of rancid dairy product for my reasonable irritation." England could hear America's suppressed laughter, and didn't appreciate it in the slightest. "Git/" He ducked his head under the faucet, turning it on full blast. He enjoyed the sensation of the water washing away the disgusting semi-liquid, even if it was a tad cold.

America laughed openly. "Well, you have to realize that this _is_ the city that never sleeps," he said, as if that explained everything.

"I thought that was Las Vegas," England muttered, patting his face dry with a clean dish towel.

"That one, too," America amended. "Actually, a lot of my cities are that way…"

"How fascinating. I take it we're visiting them all, as well," England replied dryly.

"All the states, not all the cities, England," America laughed. "We don't have _that _much time."

England muttered something about "buggering states and their buggering capitals" before he began to work on drying his bangs with the towel.

"Come on, England," Ameirca chirped, his smile widening. "Cheer up! Besides, I have a lot planned to do today!"

"It's four in the morning, America," England bit out, glaring at the overly-happy nation with an irritated, exhausted look.

"That's like… ten for you, though," America complained. "It's past breakfast time."

"And I haven't gotten a wink of sleep," England responded wryly.

America's smile softened, and he attempted to hide a laugh behind a hand. "You get used to the noise."

"It's not exactly quiet in London, either, but this is ridiculous," England muttered to himself. He moved easily back into America's living room, where he had made a bed on the couch. He'd plainly refused to take America's bed when it had been offered, saying that it wouldn't be right to take what was rightfully America's. Really, he hadn't wanted to sleep in a bed he knew America slept in every night he was in New York (which was often, considering America's affection for the city). He knew he would be surrounded and assaulted by the scents he associated with the younger county—coffee, those thrice-damned burgers, and something he could think of only as the smell of "freedom", which was ridiculous now that he thought about it. Something about that sounded oddly intimate to England, and he felt uncomfortable with the idea, despite the fact that they had been lovers for a few years now.

Of course, America had quickly offered that they sleep in it together. That idea had been shot down unceremoniously by an irate Briton in a matter of milliseconds.

As he made himself comfortable on the bed he'd fashioned for himself, England listened to America make himself comfortable on the slightly creaky mattress in the single bedroom. England closed his eyes, praying for at least an hour of sleep. He'd need every second he could get.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

The island nation woke up to the smell of frying meat and coffee. He yawned, sitting up, and briefly wondered where he was before he remembered the plane ride from hell (you could only see a bad American romantic comedy so many times before it began to meld together with all the others, albeit they had somehow gotten worse over the years). He sighed, and left the warm cocoon of blankets that had somehow become wrapped around him during his perhaps four hours of sleep.

He entered the kitchen, and watched as America hummed to himself (something that sounded suspiciously like "Burning Love" by Elvis), flipping a few stripes of bacon over. He would sometimes muttered a word or two of the song, and England's suspicions were proved correct. "'Cause your kisses lift me higher… You light my morning sky…. Burnin' love…"

"Good morning."

America jumped almost a foot in the air, looking over his shoulder quickly. When he saw who it was, he turned a little pink. "E-England! I didn't know you were up yet!"

"Do you always sing when you cook?" England questioned, walking closer. He glanced down at the food. He noticed now that there were a few eggs in the pan, as well.

America laughed, a little nervously. The blush looked good with that, England decided. America really could be adorable when he wanted to be. "Sometimes…"

"Hm." England grabbed a piece of toast from a nearby stack, and took a bite. "Do you have any preserves?" he asked.

"Jelly's in the fridge," America replied, sliding the two eggs onto a plate. "You like them sunny side up, right?"

"I'll stick to toast. Less cholesterol." America sent him a look that plainly said 'not funny', but smiled anyways after a moment. England grabbed a small jar of strawberry jam from the door of the refrigerator, and sat down to eat across from America. America let his eggs cool down and went straight for the mug of coffee in front of him. England could tell from the scent that it was black, and shook his head. "I'll never understand why you like that swill," he muttered. "It tastes disgusting."

America looked at him evenly, a corner of his mouth crooking up into a half smile. "And I'll never understand why you like that tea stuff. It ruins perfectly good water." England glared at him, but could tell America was playing with him when the taller nation broke into a full smile. "I have some Earl Gray in the cupboard, by the way. Next to the instant coffee. I picked some up for you before I picked you up."

England was a little touched that America would even think or bother to pick up his preferred beverage. He supposed it was true what they said—that the small things in a relationship were often the most important. He couldn't find a tea cup or kettle in America's cupboards, so he tossed another coffee mug into the microwave to heat up the water. While it was turning, he found the box of tea bags. "It's my favorite brand, too," he commented, raising in eyebrow in surprise. He had never told America that.

"I always see you pull it out whenever you make it back in London," America replied. "I remembered the name, and I guess I just grabbed that one without thinking." America shrugged, and went back to sipping at his coffee.

A few minutes later, England was sipping at his morning cup of tea, now in a better mood. Nothing lifted his spirits like a good cup of piping-hot tea. "Thank you for thinking about me, America."

"Not a problem, Artie." America flashed him a smile, and Arthur couldn't find it in him to complain about the nickname. "Anyways, as for what we're doing today…"

"We have to go out?" England mumbled.

"The fresh air will do you some good," America laughed. "Maybe it'll make you less cranky. Besides—what good is traveling to a state if you don't go out and see some of the stuff in it?"

England scowled. For once, America actually had a reasonable point. His good mood was souring, however, it seemed. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, I was thinking we could go to the Rockefeller Rink," America said excitedly. "You've never ice skated before, right?"

"I can't say I have," England responded dully.

"Then I'll be sure to teach you," America promised, his smile bright enough to rival the sun. "It'll be great!"

America's excitement seemed to be the product of a contagion. Before he knew it, England was smiling, as well.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

If New York was busy during the night, it was worse during the day. England looked around himself, wondering just how many people even lived in New York. For some reason, it seemed like quite a few of them were at the Rockefeller Plaza, bustling about, all having some place better to be and never taking any time to slow down. England buried his nose into the scarf America had lent him (a Slytherin scarf from the Harry Potter franchise; he had a feeling America had done it on purpose, particularly since the taller nation was wearing its gold and maroon counterpart). He was glad that he'd remembered to pack a warmer jacket. The comfortable black leather hugged his body in the right places, accenting his thinner form, and the emblazoned Union Jack embroidered onto the black gave him a sense of normalcy. Since he was surrounded by the patriotism that had become so common in America's country, he felt comforted by even that small reminder of his own country.

America was currently lacing up his skates. England somehow managed to get his feet into the boot-like contraptions, and watched as America tightened the laces, the leather hugging his feet so tightly that he would be sure to not roll his ankle. England mimicked him, and noticed the difference in their sizes. America had to be at least two shoe sizes larger than he was. Damn that height of his. England got the other skate on, and watched as America stood up, holding out a hand to help the shorter blonde up.

England took it, and managed to somehow, wobbly, stay on his feet, clinging to America's hand for balance as he adjusted to standing on the blades of his skates, rather than the flats of his shoes. "Bloody hell," he bit out, finally attempting to stand on his own once he had gotten up enough confidence.

"Takes some getting used to," America said, laughing quietly. He waited a few moments for England to regain his full sense of balance before he led them over to the ice, careful to go slow enough for England to feel comfortable walking. "Okay, it's going to be a little slippery," America warned. "But I've got you, so don't be afraid," he promised with an encouraging smile. "I won't let you fall. You trust me?"

England nodded a bit, but his grip on America's hand tightened. What the bloody hell was he thinking? He was too old for this. There was no way he could—

He stopped his mental complains when he felt America gently pull him after him onto the ice. America's long legs pumped against the ice ever so slightly to propel them forwards. "Move your legs like this—like roller blading," America instructed. "Uh, wait. Have you ever roller-bladed?" America looked at him, smiling nervously. "Sort of, uh, move them to the side and back. Push with your legs."

England watched America make the movement a few more times before he attempted it himself. He somehow found it a little harder than he imagined. Though he was usually a very coordinated individual, he found that keeping his balance on the slippery ice was more difficult than he had anticipated. After a few repetitions, he was moving alongside America, only keeping a hand near the nearby wall for slight balance. "See? You're doing it," America pointed out. "You're doing great."

England took his hand from the wall after a few more meters of practice, and attempted to move by himself, though he kept close to America. After the initial rocky start, he found that it was easier, the blades of his skates doing most of the work for him, and momentum carrying him forward. After one rotation around on his own, he felt a little more confident, and sped up. America matched his pace. "Like it?"

"It's… nice," England said simply, not wanting to praise the younger nation too much. He had a feeling if he told America he was truly enjoying skating, the nation would somehow turn it into fodder for his ego. America smiled at him, and England felt himself melt a little in spite of himself. In the middle of the rink, a group of college students began a game of the Whip, joining together their hands and attempting to fling off the person at the end.

America and England continued skating together for a few minutes, watching the game grow larger as more skaters joined in. They took a turn, England on the inside, holding his hands out unsteadily for balance. He was still rather rusty on the turns.

Unfortunately, a passing person in the Whip believed it to be a move to join the game, and snagged his wrist as they passed by. England felt a strangled yelp escape his throat as he rocketed forward with the momentum of the long line of students and other merrymakers behind him. "A—Alfred!"

England lost sight of America rather quickly as they swung around another turn. Disoriented by the sudden change in direction and speed, he tried to figure where on the rink he was at the moment, and where America would be in comparison, and what the quickest route from him to America would be. Unfortunately, he had lost sight of America among the crowd of people on the rink. Most of the men here were blonde, and quite a few were blonde—so two items of quick identification were gone. Where was that bloody brown leather bomber jacket, the one America had worn seemingly non-stop for over seventy years, when he finally needed it?

Eventually, his grip on the person next to him began to slip. He was barely able to scream before he was flung from the line, ungracefully face-planting against the wall near the back of the rink.

"Are you all right?"

England rubbed his sore cheek, looking up with a nervous and rather embarrassed smile. "Yes, I'm quite all right; thank you for asking."

Two girls looked down at him. They helped him up, their smiles growing a little. "You're a first-time skater?" the one on the left, a girl with dirty blonde hair and light blue eyes, questioned. Arthur noticed that she actually looked something like America—if, that is, America had been female. She was wearing her jacket open, and he could see the beginning of a tattoo on her chest of the American flag.

"I suppose you could say that. I was here with someone; he was teaching me," England explained.

"And now you can't find him because those jerks grabbed you in their game, right?" the other girl asked, smiling pleasantly. She had brown hair, pulled up into two low ponytails. She had a motherly air around her that reminded England something of Hungary, but without the strange obsession with male couples. Her cocoa-colored skin made him briefly think of Seychelles, as well. "We can help you look for him," she offered.

"That would be wonderful," England said gratefully. "I have no idea where I'd find Alfred here… He's tall… perhaps a little too tall… With blonde hair. He's wearing a brown leather coat with the number fifty on the back," he described briefly.

"A fifty on the back?"

"For the fifty sta… It was his number in American football when he played," England improvised. "Oh… How rude of me," he said, finally realizing something. "My name is Arthur Kirkland, ladies; a pleasure."

"I'm Jennifer," the brown-haired girl offered, seeming to find his belated introduction amusing for some reason.

"Sam," the blonde stated, smiling. Even her smile was similar to America's. England was beginning to become a little perturbed by the similarities between the country and his citizen.

The girls and England set off, scanning the crowd for America. "So, what part of Britain are you from?" Jennifer questioned with a wide smile. "Have you ever been to London?"

England supposed she had assumed he was from Britain because of his accent (which America had claimed as "totally obvious", but England couldn't see it—America was the one with the accent, for starters, and there were plenty of other areas that had similar accents to the United Kingdom in their English-speaking population). "Actually, I live in London. I grew up moving around different parts of England, but once I became older, I traveled around quite a bit more." He didn't see any harm in telling them (part of) the truth.

"Wow, that must have been great… Growing up in a place like England," Jennifer stated with a dreamy look in her eyes.

England found himself smiling. "I'll never understand that. For some reasons, Americans seem to think of England as some mystical island to be held in regard, or as the bane of their existence."

"Well, think about it," Jennifer laughed. "On the bright side, anyways. London is such an old city—so much history, so much culture…. It looks beautiful. I've always wanted to go there, to ride on the London Eye, to see Big Ben…!"

England had to try hard not to blush. It was actually a little embarrassing to hear someone from America's country flatter his country so much. "Well, yes… those parts, I suppose, are quite magical and unique… No matter how many times I see it, the water stretched out before me when I'm at the top of the Eye never gets old."

Sam shrugged a bit. "The city's fine and all, but I'd rather go check out Stonehenge. It sounds awesome. All those alien theories and stuff… There has to be some kind of proof that could be found there, right? Anywhere in the country would be cool to check out, actually, now that I think about it."

England spent quite a few minutes chatting with Sam and Jennifer about the different places of England he had supposedly "visited", rather than lived in for a solid decade or two. He told them about his favorite little-known cafes and stores in London, and the rough, rocky landscapes of the coast side near the town he'd wintered at the past year (as a way to escape from France). In return, he heard about a few of the girl's favorite places in New York, including a controversy about where the original or "best" Ray's Pizza was (apparently, the girls each had their own idea about the true answer to this question). The entire debate went right over England's head.

"I want to go there," Jennifer declared with a sigh. "The way you describe it… England sounds just absolutely gorgeous."

"I heard it rains a lot, though," Sam stated, though she sounded minimally concerned about it.

England _tsk_ed. "Then carry an umbrella around with you," he pointed out. "It isn't that it rains all the time in Britain; it's that we have rather unpredictable weather. It rains quite a bit, yes, but it changes very quickly."

"With such a sad history, it makes sense that it rains there all the time," Sam said off-handedly with a shrug. "It's like England is crying."

England fell silent for a few moments. "I suppose you're right," he said at last. "Extremely sad. Being left by all its colonies, until it's practically all alone…"

Sam smiled, almost teasingly. "You sound like you can sympathize," she pointed out.

"England is where I belong," England said simply with a shrug of a shoulder. "I travel, yes; but England is the only place I truly feel at home." _Other than America's arms,_ a voice nagged at him from the back of his mind. He pointedly ignored it. Most countries felt more at home in their own borders. It was nothing unusual.

"Hey, there's a guy with a fifty on his back," Sam pointed out, gesturing a little to their left. "That him?" she questioned, pointing out a figure about thirty feet away.

England craned his neck to see over the crowd, and saw the familiar shape of America's shoulders in his jacket. He was looking around frantically, stopping people and asking in a rather animated way whether or not they had seen him, England was sure. "Yes, that's him," England replied. There was a softer edge to his voice—whether it was affection or amusement was up to anyone's guess. "And it looks like he's about to have a panic attack." England and his two new-found companions picked up their pace, moving towards America a little more quickly.

"Hey, Arthur?" Jennifer questioned with another smile. They were perhaps twenty feet from America by now. "How about we go out for a cup of coffee sometime?" she suggested.

England glanced at her, feeling the blush he had managed to suppress before rearing its ugly head. "Ah… I, er… Th…that is… I… erm…."

Sam smiled widely, holding back a laugh, though she couldn't suppress the quiet giggle that bubbled up in her chest. "Jen, you just met the guy. Does the accent really do all that much to attract you?"

"I think British accents are sexy," Jennifer retorted. "Besides, I'm sure Arthur doesn't have any objection to a cup of coffee," she said stubbornly.

"Actually, I can't stomach the stuff," England said gently. "And while I'd enjoy talking with you, I want to make sure there are no misunderstandings. I have to inform you that I'm… er… _involved with_ someone already," he said, attempting to put her off as kindly as possible.

Jennifer seemed to take it all in stride, and it didn't really bother her, thankfully. "Damn. All the nice guys are taken."

England smiled weakly, shaking his head. "Keep up that outlook, and it will be true; besides, according to Alfred, I'm a right old man; you look about his age, I should say, and considering I'm so much older, it could very well be the truth." He had said everything without really thinking about the words that were coming out of his mouth, and he immediately regretted them. He mentally slapped himself.

"You're older than him? But he's so much bigger than you," Sam laughed. "How much older? Two years?" she teased.

"I'm twenty-seven," England improvised. "He's twenty." Hopefully they would buy that.

"Wow, you're that old?" Jennifer asked, looking highly surprised. "You look so young! It must be in your genes to age gracefully."

The island nation's eyebrow twitched in slight annoyance. He would never understand Americans and their obsession with bodily image and age. The one thing he had ever agreed with France on—at least, that he would admit to agreeing with France on—was that a person would grow better with age, like a fine wine. America, conversely, seemed to think that people aged like milk. "Twenty seven isn't that old," he murmured. He wondered how they would have reacted if they knew he was over three thousand years old (he still remembered vaguely the day they had built Stonehenge when he was a child).

They were within ten feet of America now. As good a time as any to call out to him. "Alfred!" he called.

America turned around so fast, he nearly knocked over the girl who had been skating behind hi,. He called a quick apology over to her before he skated over, moving more quickly than England could have thought possible. He barely had time to register the fact that he should stop skating before America reached him, crashing into him, spinning on his skates to keep them from falling over. The American was holding him so tightly that England was finding it difficult to breathe.

"A…Alfred, we're in _public_," he managed to hiss, his face heating up in a fierce blush.

"Don't scare me like that, Arthur!" America scolded, ignoring England's complaint. "I thought for sure you'd gotten yourself lost! I know you don't know your way around New York very well, and I couldn't find you… I about had a heart attack!"

"And you're sure that isn't the ungodly amount of burgers you've ingested in the past forty-eight hours?" England asked dryly.

America sighed in relief. "If you're making jabs about my eating habits, then I know you're okay."

America hadn't released him yet. England was sure that he had received quite enough of that. "Alfred," England said, prodding him harshly as his cheeks grew from a light pink to a few shades darker. "You can let go of me now."

"Embarassed?" America teased. England scowled. That idiot didn't know when to stop."

Jennifer, meanwhile, was staring at the two of them. It seemed that the gears in her head had finally clicked, because she smiled, speaking again" "Oh. Ohhh. Sorry, Arthur. I get it now… You know, you could have just told me."

"Told you what?" England asked, distracted by his current attempts to pry America's hands from his waist, one finger at a time.

"That you were gay. I'm not prejudiced."

England instantly began sputtered, and lose his battle with the blush. "I'm not gay! I'm just _British!_" Honestly, why did people always jump to the conclusion that he was homosexual because he liked theater and had a British accent in America's country. He didn't really think that America's overly-exuberant show of affection was much of a sign of their sexual preferences as a sign of his idiocy.

"He's British _and_ gay," America stated, choosing to be the antithesis of helpfulness at the moment. In spite of that, he was smiling brightly at the two girls. "Well, gay for me, anyways."

"What is your obsession about homosexuality?" England hissed. "Can't we just leave it at 'love is love, regardless of the genders of the participants' and be done with it?" He was tired of America's political game that always centered around homosexual issues—be it marriage, prejudice, or outright hate crimes.

"Awe, that's so cute," Jennifer piped in, smiling widely. Arthur wished the Earth would just open up and swallow him whole. He took back any thoughts of Jennifer's lack of male-couple-obsession.

"I give up," he mumbled darkly. "Nice as they are, these bloody yanks…." He didn't finish his sentence, choosing instead of hang his head and sigh again. "Honestly."

Sam rolled her eyes. "I told you, Jen. You jinx yourself. Every time you pick out a guy from the crowd, he's either a jerk, taken, or gay. Or any combination of the above."

"That offer for coffee still stands, Arthur," Jennifer said cheerfully, ignoring her friend's words. "If anything, I want to hear more about England—and the rest of the places you've visited!"

England sent her a strained, but polite smile. "I suppose I could do so; though I think I'd rather meet for tea. If you ever find your way to England, do drop by and visit."

"Can do," Jennifer promised with a light wink. A few minutes later, the girls were gone, and England was still be held in a too-tight embrace and trying to put it on to the next step, giving England a whole new reason to scold his idiot lover for public displays of affection.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England and America were currently eating their "lunch"—a few hot dogs that America had scrounged up somewhere from a street vendor. While England was enjoying his plain, America had smothered on ketchup, mustard, and relish to the point where England wondered if there truly was a hot dog in there somewhere. They continued to walk down a street, talking about this, that, and the other thing—nothing important, but enough to keep them occupied.

England allowed America to choose their direction, knowing that America knew the area far better than he did. America adored this city, even if he claimed no favoritism. America took a left down Liberty Street. Leave it to America to name a street something like that. But then, this was the country that had begun calling chips "freedom fries" because France was being a git. He almost commented on his thoughts, but stopped when he saw that they had reached the corner Liberty made with Church Street.

Across the street from the two nations, a building was going up. The construction was continuing on in spite of the bitingly cold weather of the northeastern state. England stared at the break in New York's skyline, emerald eyes widening a tad. "America…"

"They're building a memorial," America said quietly. His voice sounded very quiet and far-away.

England watched the workers go about their jobs for a few moments before he chanced looking over at America. His lover had taken on a serious air, gazing up at the piece of sky that the two towers had once occupied.

England slid his hand into America's, closing his eyes and leaning against America's shoulder. He remembered how America had reacted when he had watched the two towers go down. He had been at a UN meeting at the time, and it had been interrupted as the entire world—literally—watched the twin towers fall. America had, understandably, gone into shock. England had been forced to slap him to his sentences, which had took a grand total of six hits. America had then spent the next week or so mourning the loss of his people. Words weren't needed then, and they certainly weren't needed now. England was poor at comforting people, anyways. But America understood that the other was at least trying to comfort him from the unwanted memories. His larger hand closed around England's, a little tighter than normally perhaps, and he gave the other a tiny smile.

America leaned his head against the top of England's. "Thank you," he murmured quietly. He chanced leaning down and placing a light kiss on the older nation's lips, even though he knew England despised public displays of affection.

England responded in turn, returning it with the same kind of gentleness he knew the other would have given him in this kind of situation. The sun was beginning to set at last on England's first full day in America, and the island nation could just see the horizon behind the tall skyscrapers of one of America's most crowded, yet beautiful, cities.

America's hand tugged on England's a fraction. England took this to mean that they were to head back to America's apartment. He wasn't about to complain about it, and went willingly.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England was panting as he held onto America's broad shoulders, his evenly-clipped nails biting into the larger country's back as he clung to him. "Alfred—nn—that hurts," he managed to bite out. It wasn't horrible, by any means, but the roughness was enough to take the edge off of pleasure.

America managed to murmur a quick apology, and changed his angle to avoid causing the other any discomfort. England's fingers dug deeper into America's skin, and he gasped in the combined pain and pleasure that seemed to rule when America was perhaps a little too eager during this activity. "Alfred….!"

After their lovemaking was over, America kept a hand looped loosely around England's waist, holding the other country close to him against his chest. England's arms were still around America's shoulders, and his slim chest was heaving as he fought to catch his breath. His head was cushioned against America's breast, and he could hear the other's thudding heart rate slow from a sprint to its usual crawl. America ran his fingers along England's ribcage, dipping his hand as he traced the other's waist, to stop finally at the rise of his hips. England shuddered a bit, pulling himself closer. "You're really thin," America muttered sleepily.

"I don't live on beef and cheese, America," England replied, staring at his lover blandly. He hated it when the other brought body image into anything. The other was so insecure in his own looks because of his fluctuating waistline. It drove England to madness sometimes.

"But it doesn't look like you're eating right, either," America commented. "No guy's built like that…. You're built like a girl."

England glared at his lover in pure irritation. His ears reddened in annoyance. Even though, for once, it wasn't about America's self-image, England didn't exactly appreciate that the new topic was him. "Why you—"

"It suits you?" America suggested quickly, attempting to soothe his lover's wrath. "After all, you look…. Pretty, if nothing else. Gorgeous, more like."

England's irritated was unsated, and he narrowed his eyes. "Quit making an arse of yourself," he muttered. "You're only digging yourself into a deeper hole."

America traced his fingers over the tattoo England had on his lower back, and smiled that idiotic but adorable smile of his. The one he knew England could never resist. "It's true, though. It's adorable. You're thin and stuff, and you have long legs… And even your hips are a little curvy, and you have that perfect ass…. It's damn sexy."

England's cheeks were practically on fire, and he was growing more and more flustered. "I am not having this conversation."

"Fine, fine," America relented. "We can stop talking about it." There was a brief moment of silence, but it had hardly lasted long enough to take a few breaths before America spoke again. "So if I like all that, what do you think is sexy about me?"

England's blush returned full-force. "Get out!"

"Huh? But Arthur, this is my room—"

"OUT!"

The next thing he knew, America was outside the door, kicked out of his own room with nothing but a pillow and blanket in tow that had grudgingly been shoved into his arms by a flustered (and adorably so) England. The door slammed in his face, hiding the other's irate face from America's amused eyes. "Hey… Arthur… Arthur, come on, open the door!"

"You're sleeping out there, America!" England retorted, his voice muffled from behind the door.

America sighed softly, and set about making himself comfortable on the floor. The carpet was a little worn and was nowhere near as plush as the soft mattress in his room had been. And, of course, there was no England to cuddle with, to touch, to embrace and perhaps toy with if he decided to try and go for a second round with later. This was going to be a long night.

He laid his head down on his pillow, and closed his eyes. It would be a while until he fell asleep, but that was all right. After a few minutes of silence, he heard a quiet voice from the other side of the door reply to his earlier question: "I think it would be your eyes. I love your eyes."

America's mouth quirked up into a smile. His eyes. Somehow, that reply was so England. So Arthur. Of course the other would give him a reply like that. England was a romantic at heart, even if he never admitted as much aloud.

Fifteen minutes later, America's bedroom door opened quietly. He heard equally silent footsteps patter across the small length of carpeted floor that separated them, and felt a warm body slip into the cocoon of blankets surrounding him. A familiar blonde head tucked itself under his chin, and familiar thin arms wrapped around him. He could feel cool hands lightly brush against his back, a sensation he had long since memorized. He waited for a few moments, listening to his lover's even breathing until he was sure he was asleep, before he slipped his arms around him, and placed a kiss on England's forehead. "Good night, Arthur."

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

**A/N: For a place I've never been to, New York actually ended up being a pretty long chapter… Anyhow. The tattoo mentioned is a bit of a cameo from me one-shot "Unexpected". For those of you who haven't read it, the tattoo is of a guitar that goes from England's lower back up towards his shoulder blades, cutting diagonally across his back. It's a guitar with the Union Jack on it, with the Anarchy symbol over the top. Arthur got it during the 80s. He also has two other tattoos in this, which I intend to introduce later on in this fic.**


	3. Everything's Bigger in: Texas

**Fifty Times**

**A/N: Once again, ideas for states are welcome!**

**For this fic, I intend on mainly using what I've seen on TV, in movies, and classic stereotypes for different states. As I've pointed out before, I'm not exactly the most traveled person, when it comes to the States. Just like Hetalia, this fic is meant to poke fun at stereotypes and the like, so things may not be entirely "accurate" and "like real life".**

**As for the next state, I'm debating between Vermont (which I am having trouble coming up with ideas for, other than a basic place I want them to visit), Minnesota (which would most likely be rather long, considering I have the main idea down and it may take some time to write), California, or Florida. I suppose I'll just let everyone vote!**

**Also, I was asked if there was a Yu-Gi-Oh: The Abridged Series reference in the last chapter. Indeed, there was. I love Little Kuriboh, and add in the fact that he is British… Well, it doesn't get much better.**

**Also, this seems to have turned into more of a "fly wherever the hell we feel like" sort of thing instead of a road trip…. But whatever.**

**As a last note, I do intend on doing a chapter for every state in the United States, plus a chapter for Washington, D.C.!**

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

**Two: Everything's Bigger in… (Texas)**

Appearances were surprisingly deceiving. It was surprising, really. America had never really thought about it before, but he knew that that old saying rang true. With his pale complexion and slight build, England looked like the farthest thing from a strong country, let alone an empire that had at one time controlled nearly two thirds of the globe, stretching around the world and holding it with an iron grip—including America himself. Those thin arms and long, girlish legs; the gentle smile (when the adorably irritable nation smiled at all, that is; thankfully, that had become more often in the last few years), and of course that "gentlemanly" disposition didn't suit the image France and Spain painted of England during his pirate days. Spain claimed that England had absolutely demolished his beloved Armada and that the island had taken the helm of one of the English ships into his own hands. Mentioning the failure still brought tears to the Spaniard's eyes.

America couldn't even imagine England _dressed_ as a pirate, let alone swinging from the ropes that connected the sails, steering the ship, or any of the other "pirate" things he had seen in Hollywood movies. England was more the type to sit and relax with a hot cup of tea, read a book, and perhaps watch some kind of sport on the television (America believed it was called cricket, but he had never really paid attention to it and it didn't make much sense to him—all he knew was that it was like baseball's gay cousin).

All the same, he knew that (most of) the stories were true, even though he had never heard England himself say anything about them. He knew that the green-eyed man absolutely adored the sea. He had seen how England's eyes lit up whenever he was near the coast, breathing the fresh sea air. America enjoyed the seaside as much as anyone else he knew, but England would probably _live_ on the water if he comfortably could. Which America supposed he had, for a time, when he had taken all of those trips to visit his former colonies in the Americas, Africa, and Asia. Traveling back then hadn't exactly been swift. When he had been young, he hadn't really understood that. He had been more focused on the fact that England's visits were too far apart, even if four months of their time apart was simply spent traveling across the open waters. He had been angry at him for that, usually, even though it was hardly England's fault, and the nation visited America far more than he visited any of his other colonies.

The former colony looked over at the sleeping former empire sitting next to him. England's head was drooped down, lolling onto his shoulder, and his breathing was even and deep in his sleep. A Styrofoam cup of now-cold tea was near his hand, and a book (leather-bound, hand-written, and looking about as ancient as England himself) was still lying open in his lap. The plane still had another hour or so left in the air before they landed. America was positive that this leg of their trip would be even better than the last one. He loved Texas. And now, finally, he could show England around the Midwestern state. He had a feeling that England could definitely use the laid-back and friendly atmosphere the state had to offer, anyways. He knew that he still felt rather out of place in the States, despite having the best tour guide ever at his side. He supposed it must be the culture shock. Not being surrounded by tea shops and fish and chips stands had to be depressing for the poor guy.

In other words, England probably felt the same way America did every time he went to England, or when he had to go to drag the nation out of a pub as the elder laughed drunkenly and maniacally—or, occasionally, sobbing and crying. He would usually have to dump him at his house to sober up and play babysitter for the rest of the night. England wasn't exactly what anyone would call a "sane" drunk. Quite the opposite, actually. England tended to act weird whenever he was under the influence. America shuddered at the thought as unwanted memories of some of the times England had finished off one too many (usually more than one too many). In particular, he was reminded of the time England had gotten into a drunken argument with some hairy guy in a skirt, and had nearly gotten into a full-blown bar room brawl. Though he knew England would never admit it, he was still a small country when compared to some of the others out there. And that skirt guy had been pretty intimidating—America had the feeling that he could have easily snapped England in half like a twig.

Of course, when England had finally sobered up a few hours later, he had informed America that the "freaky cross-dresser with the plaid schoolgirl skirt that looks like he's trying to imitate Poland" had, in fact, been England's older brother Scotland, and that the skirt was really a kilt. Needless to say, America was still on Scotland's shit list.

Maybe that was a poor example. Having to adjust to American culture (even with its lack of tea shops—though now that he thought about it, Starbucks served tea, and there was nothing wrong with that) was in no way more difficult to deal with than that. Nothing was more culturally shocking that getting the living tar beaten out of you by a guy in a skirt who seriously needed to learn what a razor was.

In any case, England would eventually come to love American culture as much as he loved America himself. Or, at least, that's what America was hoping for. While England would deny vehemently that he hated him (at least, he had since they had finally confessed to one another—before then, it had been said plenty of times), the Briton rarely said the words "I love you". More importantly, he rarely called America by his seemed too formal, to the laid-back nation. Unless they were around humans or having sex, it was always "America", never "Alfred". For a moment, America toyed with the idea of voicing this concern to England, but decided against it. He knew that England was already going to be in an irate mood after the long plane ride. He had hoped that their stay in NewYork would be a pleasant experience for the other, which he believed that it had been, but with England, it was hard to tell. He would never show an unpleased face when someone important to him was trying so hard to make him happy. And he was far too polite to say outright that he didn't like something unless France had made it.

An announcement came on over the loud speaker, claiming that they were to land in fifteen minutes. The stewardess requested that all of the passengers buckle their seatbelts and return their seats to an upright position with a falsely cheery tone that America knew was hiding boredom and exhaustion. The people working on his airlines had tough jobs and long hours, and America held a lot of respect for them. Especially the pilots, considering America himself flew. America reached over to England and gently tapped on his shoulder. "Arthur, time to wake up," he prodded gently, giving the other a small shake.

England's eyes fluttered open slowly as the nation winced against the light streaming in through the half-lidded window. Exhausted emerald eyes stared ahead sleepily from behind mussed blonde hair for a few moments before blinking once and turning their gaze to the American. "We're there already?" England murmured, sitting his chair up. As he moved it forward, he arched his back and stretched his arms above his head. He yawned quietly, and America could hear a few of his joints pop in protest.

"Nearly. Time to buckle up, we're landing soon," America replied.

"Ah." England took his belt and fastened it. He had slept oddly, and his neck had a crick in it that was killing him. He rolled his head a tad to the left, attempting to work out the painful muscle. He hated sleeping oddly. "Where were we going again?"

"We're going to Amarillo," America said brightly, his smile like a sixty-watt bulb. Arthur didn't perk up as much as Alfred might have hoped. In fact, he seemed to wilt a tad. He really must be tired.

"Which would be in which blasted state again?" England replied tiredly, raising an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't know your exact geography as well as one may have hoped."

"In the amazingly awesome state of Texas," America replied with a wide smile.

England glanced out the window, almost looking unimpressed. He was greeted with the sight of a large expanse of flat, dead-grass-brown land. Texas looked like a flat land with no interesting characteristics, if his first impression had been correct. He wasn't sure if he should be glad about that or not (after all, after the excitement of New York, he could do with some "down time"). On one hand, Texas would—most likely—be less crowded than New York City had been, and would hopefully have fewer homeless people with projectiles of Yoplait. On the other, he had never really heard much about Texas, other than some saying about everything being "bigger" there and that they did a lot of cattle ranching.

They landed right on schedule a while later, and America picked up their bags from the bags from the baggage claim. The exuberant nation led England out to the parking lot, chattering away the entire time. He'd booked a rental car ahead of time, and it was waiting for them outside. England tossed his back into the trunk of the car, and crossed around to the left side of the car. He stopped, staring at the car, momentarily confused.

"What's wrong, Artie?" America asked, tossing his own bags into the back alongside England's in the back of the relatively small two-seater. At least it was a change for the Hummer he had loved so much, and wouldn't guzzle gas like a person drinking water in the desert.

"Your wheel is on the wrong side," England commented, glancing to look back towards his lover. He was too tired to remember the differences between American and English cars, apparently.

America blinked, before he himself remembered the difference. He smiled a bit, shyly. "Oh, yeah. You guys have the wheel on the right side, don't you? In America, they're on the left, remember? And we drive on the right side of the road."

"Bugger it all," England mumbled with a sigh as he crossed over to the passenger side. "You have to do everything the opposite way I do, don't you?" he muttered, slightly exasperated.

America laughed it off easily, and climbed into the driver's seat. He made sure England was secure in his seat before he set off towards their hotel. England, who still seemed to be exhausted in spite of his three-hour nap on the plane, was almost instantly asleep again, his head leaning against the window.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England and America took advantage of the hotel's exceedingly comfortable bed (America had booked a single-bed suite, much to England's embarrassment and annoyance; what was the hotel staff going to think?), and they both slept in the next day until nearly noon. When the two of them finally pulled themselves out of bed, it was moreso due to necessity than the desire to be awake.

"I feel so useless," England muttered. "I never sleep away a whole day like that."

"What's the big deal?" America replied. "I do it all the time."

England raised an eyebrow at him, unsurprised. "Right."

There was a pause before something clicked in America's mind, and he retorted. "Hey, that isn't very nice…" Despite his pouting, America's stomach decided that now was a good time to complain and growled loudly.

"Do you think the hotel still has the complementary continental breakfast going?" England questioned off-handedly at the sound of his lover's complaining abdomen. He looked as if he were praying there was a small "British" selection (he was craving a nice crumpet), but they both knew the chances were slim to none. England would have to make do with a Belgian waffle or an English muffin.

"It ended at eleven," America said, glancing at one of the little reminder items that littered hotel rooms. "And in any case, it's nearly lunch time anyways. And I know just where to take you," he declared, smiling widely.

England glanced at him, nonplussed, and raised an eyebrow. "Do you, now?"

"It's one of my favorite places around here," America replied proudly.

England continued to stare at his lover, not seeming to be very pleased or impressed by the other's apparent pride in the establishment. "Please tell me everything there isn't fried."

"Not _all_ of it," America said defensively, though he still smiled that million-watt smile that England enjoyed in spite of himself.

"At least there's that," England murmured. America led him out of the hotel, half dragging him, and complained the entire way about being "so starved he could eat a horse", while the Englishman half-heartedly scolded him, claiming that it was his own fault for staying in bed past the hotel's breakfast hours. The growling of said man's stomach had nothing to do with it.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

America pulled into the parking lot in front of his anticipated restaurant a short time later. All England could tell was that it was a rather boring-looking establishment, rectangular in shape and with nothing, really, setting it apart from any of the other buildings around. It was actually on the small side for a restaurant, when England thought about it. Before the island nation could even read the name of the place, America was already dragging him into it (literally) by his arm, smiling that wide, idiotic grin of his and babbling away about how "Coyote Bluff had the best in town", and why that was the reason he had chosen to take England there. England, for one, simply accepted the America's excited behavior and his fate, and allowed himself to be taken to one of the booths lining the wall. He still had quite the bout of jet lag (he had always hated flying), and unlike America, he never took well to new time zones. Where he lived, it was already past dinner time—and he was only just eating lunch. His stomach growled at the thought, and he looked over towards America, who was talking animatedly to one of the servers by the front of the building.

The waiter glanced over at England, smiled widely, and laughed quietly to himself before he walked back into the kitchen. England could have sworn he heard the young man yell the words "we have fresh meat" a few moments later, as well as the muffled laughter of the cooks, but he hoped that it was simply his imagination.

America joined England a few moments later, sliding into the booth across from the island. After the nation had made himself comfortable, England spoke: "What was that about?"

"I was just ordering," America said, smiling that beautiful movie-star smile of his. England could sense a mischievous glint in it—the same one that America always had when he was a child and had done something naughty, such as the time he had hidden a snake in what's-his-name's bed after England had taken his side in a childish argument. If England recalled correctly, it had been about the distribution of sweets or some other such nonsense (it was hardly what-was-he-called's fault that America had eaten his share so quickly).

"What are you plotting?" England asked bluntly.

America gave the Englishman a rather hurt look. "Arthur, I feel insulted. You honestly think that I would ever, ever do anything to hurt you?"

"Hurt me, no," England replied crisply. "Torture me, I have no doubt that you would."

"That hurts, Iggy," America sighed dramatically. He had obviously been paying far too much attention to Francis lately. "That hurts right here." He put his hand over his heart, shaking his head sadly. Yes, he had definitely been spending too much time with the Frenchman.

"Hmph, right," England muttered sarcastically. "Git." However, he reached his hand across the table, laying it on top of America's in a subtle gesture of affection. America smiled back at him, flipping his palm so that it faced upwards and gripped England's hand softly. England stared at their intertwined fingers. England's pale, sun-starved skin stood out against his former charge's fading summer tan. The smaller nation's cheeks turned a few shades darker when he fully realized what America had done, and he pulled his hand away.

America laughed knowingly, sending England another sugar-sweet, but brief, smile. "Afraid of a little affection, Artie-kins?"

"Don't call me that," England grumbled in reply. It was his customary response to any nickname the other chose to call him, unless it was something he genuinely found sweet (a rare occurrence, considering America's fondness for the oddest pet names).

"Fine, fine," America relented. "I hope Iggy does it for you."

England's answering wry stare could have wilted flowers. "It's hardly any better."

"But Arthur sounds so formal," America complained. "Are we lovers, or aren't we? It feels weird to always call you by your full name!"

England's cheeks flushed momentarily darker. He nearly argued that he didn't have the other call him by his _full_ name—after all, even England admitted that The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was a mouthful—but he was saved when the waiter decided to arrive with their food. "Ah, look, the food is here."

America thanked the waiter, who began by setting down a plate of cheese fries between the two nations, followed by what Arthur could only assume was—of course—a burger. "What the hell is this?" England asked, staring down at the strange collection of fat and cholesterol that had been placed before him.

"The Burger From Hell," the waiter replied, his all-too-fake food service smile plastered on his face. "Our best seller."

"The Burger from… what?"

"The Burger From Hell," America repeated, chipper, as the waiter took his leave of them. "A half-pound burger with cheese, jalapenos, onions, and habanero hot sauce!"

"Are you insane?" England asked immediately, wondering just how many screws were loose in his lover's head. He had to be. It was the only excuse England could think of.

America popped the top of his burger off, and began to pour more of the habanero hot sauce from a bottle in the center of the table on top of it, before he had even taken the first bite of his burger. England stood corrected. _Now_ America was insane. "Alfred, that's disgusting," he muttered.

"Don't knock it 'till ya try it," America quipped with a good-natured laugh.

"This thing is huge, though," England replied. "Who needs a half pound patty on one of these things?"

"Then save half, or give it to me," America offered. "Besides. Everything's bigger in Texas!"

England felt sick at the thought of eating that much food, but decided that he'd humor America and at least try the burger. Hellish, indeed. "If I don't eat it all, I'm sure as hell not going to give it to you. I swear, Alfred, I should put you on a diet," he warned. He was hesitant to take his first bite, as he wasn't exactly a fan of spicy foods. Curry was fine and dandy, but America's growing love for things made from habanero and "ghost" peppers, whatever those were, was growing slightly worrisome. But he had agreed to go on this damned road trip of America's, so he supposed that agreeing to what America had planned for "activities" along the way was also a part of the package.

He took a bite, trying his best to remain open-minded. His first impression was that of the burger itself—juice, well-seasoned, and cooked perfectly.

That was when the heat began to set in.

He forced himself to swallow, barely chewing, and coughed. "Jesus Christ—" he managed to bite out, a few short coughs trying to clear his throat of the burning sensation.

"Huh? Too spicy?" America seemed amused by Arthur's predicament, and smiled at him across the table before proudly taking another bite. England watched in horror as America dipped his sandwich in even _more_ hot sauce that he had poured onto his plate, and took another large bite. He could feel his own throat combust at the mere thought of eating such an amount of spice. "They're not that hot, you know, Artie," Alfred said teasingly.

"Perhaps not for you," England coughed. "I despise spicy foods…"

America smiled widely. "Awe, come on! It's good!"

"The burger itself isn't bad," England grudgingly agreed. "That is, if I can ever taste anything again." Instead of going for the burger again, which he had decided truly _was_ from Hell, he grabbed one of the cheese fries, nibbling on it while he watched America eat his burger as he did all the other times—in a few bites. "I'll stick with the chips. You can have your burger, but I'll be damned I fI let you eat my burger as well. You need to watch your calorie intake. That's why your weight keeps fluctuating, you know," he pointed out.

"Hey! England! I'm so not fat!" America complained.

"Perhaps not, but you can still take better care of yourself," England pointed out.

"Well… At least I go to the gym every day," America defended. "Unless I forget, that is…. You're always doing paperwork! There's no way you do that!"

England felt an eyebrow twitch in irritation. Despite how he looked, he had to work for his physique. He hated how Alfred could keep his strength up without truly trying; Alfred's form of exercise seemed to consist of a few push-ups and video games most of the time. England could do nothing but work out every day, and he never gained an ounce of muscle. But he also knew that the weight he did have could easily be lost if he forgot to eat (a common occurrence during election years or high-stress times; the fact that he'd lost weight was almost always immediately evident on his thin frame, and one of his secretaries had claimed he had developed an eating disorder and had begun forcing food on him every time he went past her in the office), but he had issues when it came to putting on muscle. So he'd begun working with Kiku in the mid-80s in order to make use of the few muscles he was fortunate enough to have.

He doubted he could beat America in a battle of brute strength, but if he could get a well-placed roundhouse kick or palm-heel strike to work, he had a feeling the larger nation would be worse for the wear, if not down for the count. Not that he expected to fight America anymore. He'd used the techniques a few times in the past few years with France, though, and they had come in rather handy. Scratch that—they were true life savers.

"I run three kilometers every morning before going to the office, Alfred," he stated blandly.

"How long is that? Half a mile?" America questioned, clueless. Those beautiful baby blue eyes of his blinked a few times.

England's icy demeanor warmed a tad. "It's over a mile, you git," he muttered. "And I weight train with Kiku, when I have time. Just because you have the advantage of brute strength…"

"Oh yeah!" America exclaimed, reminded of something. "Kiku and I were talking about that! He said that you're getting pretty good at fighting, when you wanna be. He said something about France getting drunk and you turning him into a bloody pulp when he hugged you from behind or something."

England shuddered at the memory. "Of course I kicked his arse," he muttered darkly. "He wouldn't get the hell off of me. And I prefer not to have anyone grab my back side, thank you very much."

America chuckled, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "You like it when I do it" under his breath, and finished his Infernal Burger. England continued to eat his less hellish fries, and had to beat America off when he attempted to snatch up England's burger, as well. They eventually came to an agreement—England forced himself to finish half of his burger, and America could finish what was left. How America managed to continually fit that much food in his stomach was beyond England.

On the way out the door, England felt a hand on his bum. He stared at America dangerously for a few moments. When the younger nation made no motion to remove his offending hand, England physically removed it himself. "When I said 'anyone' earlier, that included you," he muttered dangerously. America only laughed.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

It was late now. The Burger from Hell hadn't exactly agreed with England's stomach (he'd found that America had ordered both of their burgers with extra habanero sauce, forgetting that England couldn't stand spicy foods; he really could have throttled America for that one), and as a result, he hadn't been feeling up to much after traveling and walking all afternoon seeing the sights. Well, America had eaten dinner—England certainly felt nauseous at the idea of food after what he had gone through.

They were at the bar down the street from their hotel now, with country songs blasting from an outdated sound system that somehow kept the place feeling homey and friendly. In the corner, a loud group of college students were playing a game of beer pong. One particular student was playing a horrid game, though it was hard to tell if it was on purpose or not. Another group was loudly cheering on a person who had decided to give the bar's mechanical bull a go. England had at first wondered what the hell could possibly possess a person to decide to get within fifteen feet of the contraption, but after the third glass of whiskey, England was starting to think that it looked interesting.

Sometime during a song that America seemed to adore singing along to in that oh-too-beautiful Texas drawl of his ("She thinks my tractor's sexy~ It really turns her on~ She's always starin' at me~"), England made his way over to the wall surrounding the padded pit around the mechanical animal. He watched, intrigued, for a few minutes as a girl held on for dear life, yelling and whooping in excitement.

America appeared behind him. "That looks awesome, huh?" he questioned, smiling widely.

"It looks like you'd have to be insane to try it," England replied, his words slightly slurred by the amount of alcohol in his system. "We don't have these across the pond."

America laughed, and motioned to a man sitting next to the control panel. "Hey! Mind if I go next?"

"Not at all," the man replied with a quiet laugh and a tip of the large cowboy hat atop his head. After a short amount of time, the girl was flung from the saddle, landing unceremoniously on her backside in the ring. She was laughing, and climbed out, aided by a man who England could only assume was her boyfriend, who seemed to be just as amused (if not more) than the giggling girl.

America leapt over the barrier expertly, then swung his leg over the saddle. He hooked his legs into the stirrups, whooping. "Hit it!" he called, that stars-and-stripes Movie Star smile plastered over his youthful face. England could feel butterflies erupt in his stomach at the sight of it.

"You got it." The employee wasted no time in cranking it up, and England had to wonder how America was even staying in the saddle after a few moments, let alone laugh throughout the entire thing.

The employee spun America off after a little over a minute, and the taller blonde hit the ground hard, though he never stopped his buzzed laughter. America was strong enough so that being thrown had hardly fazed him. America blew a few stray strands of hair out of his face, looking at England with sparkling sky-hued eyes. He needed a haircut. But still, England felt himself melt a little. "That never gets old. Not the same as the real thing, but hey. Still fun!"

"Hey, would you wanna take a swing at it?" The man who was controlling the bucking bronco was addressing England now, gesturing towards the bull. "Maybe you'll be as good as your friend there," he challenged with a laugh. Obviously, it was more for everyone's amusement than any actual belief that England would do well. But it was a mutual thing—everyone made a food out of themselves on it. That was what made it fun.

America smiled gratefully, but shook his head. "Nah, my friend here has had a few, so it probably isn't a good idea—"

"I'm perfectly sober," England protested, glaring at his lover. Did America honestly think that a few drinks would make him that helpless? "I can handle my liquor!"

"Arthur," America replied slowly, as if talking to a petulant child. Hi face had fallen into a "yeah right" sort of expression. "You're tipsy, at the very least."

"You've had more than I have," England pointed out.

"I can hold my liquor better than you can." Though the fact that England always went for the hard liquor probably didn't help his case in this matter.

England glared at America, and then looked at the man behind the controls. "Start the damn thing up. If I can stay on the deck of a ship in the middle of a goddamned hurricane, I can sure as hell stay on this thing," he declared. Ignoring America's warnings to not do anything rash, England stepped into the padded arena, swinging himself into the saddle with practiced ease. He hadn't been in the saddle of a bull before, but it hadn't been long since he'd ridden a horse—and before he'd started riding in carriages and, later, cars, he had ridden on horseback quite often. He was an able horseman, simply out of practice. He had a feeling he could handle this oversized toy. It wouldn't be any and different from breaking in a wild horse (which, admittedly, had been more of America's thing during his cowboy years than it had ever been England's).

It began slowly, and he quickly learned to move his body in tune with the mechanical animal. He couldn't try and sit straight up, as he would on horseback, because it would only buck him straight off. If he let himself fall forward as it came up, it kept him comfortably in the saddle. He would just have to be careful not to smack his face on the back of the animal.

A fraction of a second after he'd gotten the hang of it, the bull began to buck more wildly. England's fingers held onto the reigns, and he watched his knuckles grow white. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. He wasn't completely sober—he was a bit tipsy, and doing things like this while slightly inebriated was never a good idea.

Back and forth, spin around, back, sharp turn—all of these sudden movements were making the British nation dizzy. The mechanical bull's movements sped up as each second passed, becoming more sudden and erratic. He was sure that he only held on as long as he had out of sheer stubbornness and fear, somehow surpassing Alfred's mark in that time. His legs clung at the saddle, his fingernails dug into the cloth cover of the contraption, and he closed his eyes tightly as he tried his hardest to just hold on as his grip began to slip.

A few seconds later, he was flung unceremoniously flung from its back, and the wind was knocked from his lungs as he hit the barrier wall harder than he would have thought. He sat up, coughing a bit, his head spinning. _Ouch_.

America rushed forward. "Artie! Are you okay?" he asked, worry evident in his voice.

England tried to focus on his significant other, his vision spinning. "I feel sick," he murmured, placing a hand over his mouth. Without needing another word, America grabbed England around the waist and rushed him off towards the nearest bathroom. They only just made it in time.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England was drunk. Well, perhaps that was understating things. After the mishap with the mechanical bull, England had attempted to down his mortification with a large amount of alcohol, ignoring any pleas from America stating that he had already drunk enough.

At the moment, however, America was far from complaining.

England's fingers dug into his lover's shoulders as he cried out, whimpering and writhing beneath his lover. Sometime before this had all started, England had stolen Texas off of America's face to tease him about the frames. Sometime after that, the infamous specs had ended up on England's face. America had to admit, England looked rather sexy with glasses. England always seemed to prefer it when America took off his glasses when they found themselves in this situation—why that was, though, America wasn't entirely sure. He filed it under the "Ask England" section of his mind, which seemed to only be growing fuller and more cluttered the more time he spent with the smaller man.

England wrapped his arms around his lover's neck, pulling himself up and pressing his mouth against America's desperately. England's lips were already swollen and a little bit bruised, and his cheeks were flushed both from the alcohol and their current predicament. Texas graced his cheek bones perfectly, and emerald-green eyes looked up at the larger country with a slightly glazed look, though affectionate. America moved again, and those eyes snapped open wider. England's small mouth moved from America's and opened with s moan, forming into an _o_. England always was the louder one in bed, surprisingly.

England whimpered against Alfred's shoulder, crying out with each movement. His nails dug deeper into America's shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks. America was practically attacking his neck, nipping at the pale flesh and leaving small bruises and rose-colored spots. "Arthur…!"

"Nn—Alfred…" England's legs willingly wrapped around America's waist, and the Briton almost seemed to be silently begging America to move faster, his simpering sounds and cries driving his American off the brink of sanity.

"If you keep making those faces, Arthur, I'm not going to last," America warned.

"Nn—what—faces?" England retorted, his fingers entwining themselves in the sheets as they finally stopped the constant abuse on America's back. His sentence was practically lost in the series of small cries and grunts he tried in vain to hold in.

The two of them lay in bed together soon after. England, flushed but content, lay limp as a rag doll against the sheets of the hotel bed, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. "…America?" he murmured. America looked at him expectantly. "What you said earlier…. About everything being bigger in Texas?" he murmured sleepily.

"Yeah? What about it?"

England didn't reply for a time, and it was difficult to tell whether he had fallen asleep or not. "…Never mind," he whispered at last, yawning softly.

America hooked an arm about his waist, pulling the gentleman's back to his chest, and curled around him. He intertwined his legs with England's, noting that his feet were freezing cold, like ice; just as his hands always were. "Your circulation is out of wack, old man," he accused quietly against the back of England's neck. "You're always cold."

"S' jus' cold in here, 's all…" England slurred out sleepily. "An' don' call me tha'… 'm no' tha' old…."

America smiled against England's nape, and kissed the soft flesh beneath his lips. "All right, all right. Good night, Arthur."

"G'night, America…."

England wasn't sure if he could tell America that everything _was_ notably bigger in Texas.

In particular, "Florida".

He'd be hurting tomorrow.

**Fifty Times**

**A/N: Well… This time, it's the lovely state of North Dakota. I grew up in North Dakota from fourth grade onwards, so I was looking forward to writing the state. I will admit that the weather is very moody… Worse than England if he were on PMS.**

**The next chapter I'm going to write is Virginia, as a gift to my America—you know who you are, and I love you!**

**I will point out that the giant bison statue is indeed real. It's about 26 feet long, and 46 high… And it's the world's largest buffalo. Why North Dakotans are so proud of this achievement, I haven't the foggiest, but we are. More importantly, it is one of North Dakota's main tourist attractions (if you can call it that). How many people would drive any distance to visit a giant buffalo, I wonder?**

**The song America sings early on in the chapter is "North Dakota Bois", a parody of Katy Perry's "California Gurls" written by a North Dakota native that I actually went to school with. The video can be found on YouTube, and is good for a laugh not just for those from North Dakota, but the Midwest in general.**

**Please enjoy the latest addition to Fifty Times!**

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

**Three: Of Giant Statues of Animals and Blizzards (North Dakota)**

The flat expanse of land continued as far as the eye could see, covered in a thick blanket of crystal-clean snow broken only by the thin black ribbon of highway the two nations were currently traveling on. Occasionally, England spotted a snow-covered hay bale or cow ("Bison", America corrected; after a moment, Arthur remembered the creature that America had thrown about as a child and grimaced).

All in all, the drive had been rather dull since they had passed over the Red River, which served as the dividing border between the states of Minnesota and their current destination—the state of North Dakota. England had never heard of the name before, but he assumed that because of the name, it would be somewhere along the northern border America shared with what's-his-name… Canadia? Something like that. Anyhow, it was somewhere around there, and that was good enough for England. After all, he had the ultimate tour guide with him, and so long as they weren't separated, he didn't have to worry about getting lost.

For some odd, unexplained reason, the landscape seemed to change dramatically as soon as they had crossed the Red River bridge, from the city of Moorhead to one called Fargo. Whereas Minnesota was full of trees (and, in warmer months, other kinds of greenery), North Dakota was flat as a pancake, in America's words, with the odd exception of a small hill here and there. The closest things England had seen to trees were scraggly bushes that were barely able to poke out of their snowy winter prison. It was surprising, really, how all of this flat, featureless, nearly barren land there was—and it made England realize just how much _bigger _than him America really was.

Speaking of America, England swore he was going to throttle him. "America, that damn song has repeated on the blasted radio three times already since we began this trip. Turn it off."

America shrugged England's words off, and continued to hum along with the opening of "California Gurls", unabashed by England's sour mood. He was used to England's harsh words by now; and besides, it wasn't the same song… Technically. And the radio wasn't on—it was Alfred's iPod, plugged into the dash and set on shuffle.

Instead of the expected female voice of Katy Perry, Arthur could hear a male begin to sing. While he didn't necessarily have a bad voice, he wasn't the perfect example of what a singer should aim for—though England could tell he was holding back, and for good reason, when he realized it was a parody. America sang along, tapping out the rhythm on his steering wheel as they hurtled down the highway at a speed England was rather sure was over the speed limit, particularly on the rather horrible roads. To his displeasure, there was a healthy coating of ice over them—even more than the blanket that had covered the parking lots back in Minnesota.

"_North Dakota boys, we're unreliable,_

_Hunting's more important than work._

_If you don't have a gun, you're not American,_

_Oh, oh-oh…."_

England rubbed his temples in a gentle, massaging motion. This was going to be a _long_ day, he could already tell.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

They had been driving for two hours since Fargo, and had passed by only a few small towns—most of them small enough to miss if you blinked. But they had yet to run into another rcar. It seemed as if no one other than America was stupid enough to brave the road conditions.

"Is it always like this?" England asked.

"Is what always like this?" America replied, taking his eyes off the road to look at his companion.

England made an angry _tsk_ing noise. "Eyes on the road, watch where you're going, git," he stated, his voice lacking its former bite and scorn. He hadn't meant his insults since before the first World War. The angry effect he was going for was diminished when he smiled ever so slightly at America's "kicked puppy" reaction.

"This state. Are the roads always this horrible?"

"In North Dakota, there are two seasons," America replied. "Winter and road construction." The two of them rounded a bend in the road, and England could see another town laid out beneath the freeway. They drove through it, America slowing down to mutter about police officers being "jerks" here, and England took to staring out the window again.

After a minute or two, on their way out of the town, England found something that caught his eye. He looked up towards the top of a hill, incredulous. "America, what is that?" he asked.

"Hm?" America looked towards the side of the road. "What's what?"

"That giant… thing… poking out of the snow on top of that hill."

"…Oh! That." America grinned. "That's the world's largest buffalo!" he said proudly.

"The world's largest _what?_"

"Buffalo," America laughed. "Remember when you freaked out 'cause I was playing with one as a kid and—"

England stared at his former colony as if he had lost his mind, interrupting. "Yes, yes, I know what a buffalo is, America. What I want to know is _why_ the blasted _hell_ you have bothered to even _build_ the 'world's largest buffalo'."

There was another long pause as America thought of his answer. Finally, he smiled over at the other with that dazzling Hollywood smile of his. "…'Cause it's cool?" England simply raised a large eyebrow at him. "What? It is!" America protested. "Besides, Jamestown—the town we just passed through—is known as the Buffalo City because of it! Isn't that neat? It was the first


	4. Land of Ten Thousand Lakes: Minnesota

**Fifty Times**

**A/N: I'm glad everyone is enjoying Fifty Times so far!**

**Minnesota is my childhood home, so I, of course, have extremely fond memories of this particular state. I have a feeling that I will be receiving questions about this, but YES, Veigel's Kaiserhoff IS a real restaurant, and is definitely one of the best authentic German places I've ever been to. When I was a kid, we always went to Kaiserhoff whenever we went to New Ulm (about an hour and a half drive from my hometown) to visit my great-grandfather. (Fun fact: New Ulm was the filming location for the comedy film Grumpy Old Men!) However, I also find the stereotypes for my home state hilarious and will, of course, make fun of them. I've already chosen the next state to be made (North Daota), but please let me know what other states you would like to see soon. Please enjoy the next chapter on Minnesota!**

**States to vote for: California, Vermont, Washington, Nevada, Alaska, Louisiana, Florida, Massachusetts, or Virginia (I have Virginia, Louisiana, Nevada and Alaska more or less planned out, so they could be put up a bit faster). Again, suggestions for states are more than welcome!**

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

**Three: Land of Ten Thousand Lakes and Ten Billion Mosquitoes (Minnesota)**

England stared at America in pure bewilderment. "America, where on Earth are we going that I am going to be in need of _that_?" he questioned dully, staring at the unbelievably _thick_ coat that America was holding out to him. It had extra length, as well, stopping just above the knees, and the padding on the inside of it was sure to make England look as if he had instantaneously gained fifty pounds just by putting the damn thing on. "Please say we aren't going to Alaska."

America laughed. "No, don't be silly! We're not heading to Alaska yet!" he declared. "That isn't for a few more weeks."

"Joy," England replied, his voice monotonous, staring at the jacket with obvious dismay.

"Come on. It's going to be cold when we get off the plane in Minneapolis, and then we have to get to New Ulm," America insisted, pushing the jacket into England's eyes. The island reluctantly took it at last.

"New Ulm?"

"It's in Minnesota," America explained quickly, his tone chipper. He looked out of the plane's window. "We should be landing in a few minutes. I totally can't wait to show you around!"

England had really never heard of Minnesota. He knew that it was located somewhere in America's vast Midwest, but other than that, he had no idea what America would have in store for him in the named state. "What are you planning on torturing me with in this one?" Arthur chose to ask blntly.

"Hey, at least I didn't take you here during mosquito season," America defended with one of his trademark pouts, the ones that always made England almost want to drop his bad moods—_almost_. "Those things are big enough here to carry you off, and there are billions of 'em."

"You're kidding," England replied flatly. "Why on Earth would anyone settle where the insects were so horrid?"

America shrugged. "Well, for starters, the land here is gorgeous—lots of trees, awesome fishing, lots of water… It isn't called the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes for nothing. Besides, there's always something wrong with a place; nowhere is perfect."

"Land of Ten Thousand Lakes…" England repeated, letting the name roll off his tongue. That had to be an exaggeration. "That can't be possible."

"Actually, Minnesota has eleven thousand, eight hundred and forty-two lakes," America recited, smiling widely and nodding proudly. "So there's plenty of room to go out on the water and not run into anyone—especially if you're up in the Northern part!"

"If you haven't noticed, America, it's winter," England pointed out patiently.

"Exactly!" America laughed. "Don't worry, Artie! I totally got this set up! One of my senators had a few friends of his pull some strings and do us a favor. They lent us some stuff."

England, confused, simply allowed America to prattle on about how excited he was about whatever nonsense he had planned. England, meanwhile, looked out the window at the winter scene beneath them America hadn't lied—there really was a large amount of trees here. The whole view looked like something out of a Christmas card. England remembered briefly when his own country had looked like this; he had still been so small then. It had been ages since he had seen this amount of untamed wilderness.

A short amount of time later, their small plane bumped onto the runway before coming to a rolling stop. The stewardess, a chipper woman in her late thirties, twittered animatedly in a pleasant voice as the passengers prepared to exit the plane about the current time and temperature, and the expected weather for the night—snowy and a little windy. America forced the jacket over England's shoulders, and he finally slipped his arms into the sleeves and zipped up the front.

He stepped out of the plane, walking into a relatively quiet airport. "There aren't many people here, are there?" he questioned. They had landed in a city called Minneapolis, which was supposedly one of the biggest cities in the state. However, the airport didn't seem very crowded at the moment—in fact, it looked rather empty.

Ouch. Every time he took a step, his bum hurt from their latest "escapade". If he had to walk very far, he was going to throttle America. He made a silent vow to himself to abstain so long as they were within Texan borders from this day on.

"Not really. Right now, at least," America admitted. "But then, it's snowy out. But I think that's half the charm of it. Minnesota isn't as crowded as New York is. But there are still enough people here to make the cities worth visiting."

"Hm…" England looked out the nearest window. Outside, a light wind was whipping up snow like powder, blowing it across the pavement. It was a rather pretty picture, actually. The two waited for a few minutes as their luggage was unloaded from the plane, and they each retrieved their respect suitcases from the carousel. America had rented another car for them—or borrowed one from a friend, England couldn't really remember. The American had been babbling during most of the plane ride, and to be frank, England wasn't really one to enjoy flying as America did. He much preferred having his feet on the deck of a ship, being able to feel the sea breeze and the shift of the floor beneath his feet, rather than be a couple thousand feet up in the air, protected by little more than an inch or two of sheet metal and a pilot that, most of the time, was only awake because of the copious amounts of coffee the airline attendants had forced upon him.

America left him with their bags to go and fetch the car. England watched as the American half-jogged across the parking lot, his head bowed against the wind and his hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets. He took out a set of keys, fumbling with them slightly, and unlocked the door to a maroon-red pickup trick. He lifted himself into the cab, brushing snow off of his back and shoulders. England was a little surprised at how fast the snow was coming down, and how quickly it had piled up on him. America started up the truck, and began to fiddle around with some of the controls of the dashboard. He gave it a few minutes to warm up before he pulled it around to the front door, where he allowed it to idle. He opened the door and slammed it behind him, returning to the door that England was currently taking shelter behind. "Come on, let's get the stuff in the back and get going," America said, smiling brightly. "It's only two, and everything's already set up for us!" America led the reluctant island nation back to the pickup, practically dragging him.

"America, where on Earth are we head—OH GOOD LORD!" England's eyes widened to the size of saucers as the cold hit him. Even under the thick jacket and his leather gloves, the icy temperature struck right through to the center of his body, hitting his unprotected legs first.

America laughed. "A bit cold, huh, Artie?" he teased. He opened the tailgate, and helped England heft the two suitcases into the back, underneath the snow cover. As soon as the handles were away from his grip, England was racing towards the cab of the truck, skidding slightly on the thin layer of ice beneath his feet. What the hell was _wrong_ with America's people? Who in their right mind lived in a place like this?

England threw himself into the passenger's seat. His hair was practically plastered to his head with half-melted snowflakes. A few of them had somehow managed to attach themselves to his eyelashes. He wiped a hand across his face, brushing water and snow alike from his person, and ruffled it out of his hair. It was a little warmer in the car, but it was mainly because the wind was blocked. The cab hadn't quite warmed up from the heater as of yet.

America climbed into the driver's side, smiling widely, his cheeks slightly red from the cold outside. "Don't worry, babe. You'll get used to it," he assured him with a loving smile.

England grumbled darkly. "I'd better bloody not well have to," he hissed darkly.

America laughed, putting the car into drive. "Well, at least we didn't do this last year," he chirruped. "Forty below every day for two weeks solid… Sixty below with wind chill," he added as an afterthought.

England shook his head, once again wondering what the hell was wrong with the people who had first settled here?

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

As the cab of the truck heated up, the two nations removed their jackets. They had been on the road for going on an hour, and Arthur found that, after a certain amount of time, even looking at the large amount of beautiful greenery in the middle of winter grew dull after a while. America had turned on the radio some time ago, though neither of them had really been paying much attention to it.

England yawned, leaning his forehead against the cool glass of the truck's window. America glanced over at him. "Don't worry, Iggy, it isn't far," he smiled. "About another half an hour."

England nodded once, numbly, and closed his eyes, wondering just how long he had stuck in this nation before he could return home to his beautiful, rainy little island.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

America pulled into New Ulm a little later than he had estimated, though not by much. It was dinnertime, and both of the nations had admitted to being rather hungry, though England had forced America to promise to not take him to a hamburger restaurant. England gazed out of the half-frosted window as they drove through the small, quiet town. Here and there, a person would be darting out into the cold to take out the trash or another quick errand. A middle-aged woman was walking her dog, wrapped from head to toe in layers of coats and sweaters, and a large, fluffy pair of snow pants.

America pulled off the road, parking in a small lot, and undid his seatbelt as he killed the engine. "All right, then, Artie, let's get us some dinner!" America smiled, giving his lover a quick peck on the cheek as he prepared to leave the safety of the still-warm cab.

"Where are we going?" England asked curiously, undoing his own seatbelt and dreading the cold that was soon to hit him.

"Veigel's Kaiserhoff," America replied animatedly. "The food there is _awesome!_"

"Kaiser…. Have you been spending too much time with Germany lately?" England questioned, surprised to hear America praising anything that had to do with the German. Usually, America was complaining about how uptight the German was, or something that he had done years earlier.

America laughed. "New Ulm is known as one of the most German places in my country," he explained. "Besides, lots of the people in this part of my country are German… Or Scandinavian," he amended. "In any case, I promise, you'll find at least something you'll like here, okay? Everything's amazing, so you can't go wrong!"

England sighed, undoing his own seatbelt. As much as he hated to admit it, he _did _rather enjoy German cuisine. Something about the homey, heavy flavors was comforting. Though he may have admitted so much to Ludwig, he would never even think of doing such a thing to—or even admitting he tolerated it—within the general vicinity of Prussia.

America led him down a block, turning into a white building with darkly-stained wood trim, in a classical German architectural style. Instantly upon entering, England welcomed the warmth the restaurant provided. The walls were lined with signed photographs of the American celebrities that had paid the restaurant a visit, and England was actually surprised at the sheer number of them.

A hostess greeted them cheerfully, and led them through a small hallway. The walls here, too, were jammed full of even more photographs. England glanced at them in passing interest as the girl led them into a larger room and seated them down towards the back, where it was away from the door and even warmer. The place was relatively busy, for how inhospitable it was outside, and nearly ever table was packed full of families eating dinner together. "This place seems rather… lively," England stated, feeling slightly awkward. Everyone here was a family or couple. He was sure that the two of them stuck out like a sore thumb.

"I told you, the food here is awesome," America shrugged. "So it makes sense that lots of people would come here for dinner, right?"

"Er… Right."

A waitress came to their table and dropped off two menus. As she began walking away, she did a double-take towards Alfred, and smiled widely, stopping in her tracks. "Alfred! Where have you been? I haven't seen you in forever, don't you know?"

America laughed sheepishly. "Sorry, Abby!" he apologized. "I've just been real busy, you know?"

The girl laughed, waving it off. "Well, come up and visit us up here every once in a while, would you? I know you have that flashy Washington job and don't care much about the average Jane busting her butt as a waitress, but that doesn't mean you can up and disappear on me for so long! You're my best tipper!" she said in a falsely scolding manner.

America laughed openly. "I'll keep that in mind," he assured her. "You know I always come here when I'm in the area."

"True. So, then, Al: who's your friend here?" Abby turned her attention toward England, her bright blue eyes sparkling with good-natured amusement. It was almost odd, seeing someone with eyes so similar to Germany's smiling so widely. It was almost creepy, if England were to tell the truth.

"Arthur Kirkland," England offered politely as he bowed his head in greeting and smiled at her. "The pleasure is mine, I assure you."

The girl's eyes flashed in amusement and, if England dared to think so, excitement. "Oh, you brought a guy back from work? Overseas? It must have been a long flight!" She glanced at Alfred, her smile spreading wider. "Have you been showing him a good time?"

"You know it, Abby," America replied, smiling a crooked grin. "He doesn't know much about the States, so I've gotta fix that."

"I know plenty about your bloody states, thank you very much," England grumbled darkly, opening the menu moodily. The way America said that, it was as if England didn't know him at all! Who had been the one to raise him from infancy? It sure as hell hadn't been France!

Abby laughed. "All righty, then! I'll just let your friend have a look at the menu, then, and I'll be back in a few. Anything to drink?"

"A Pepsi's good for me," America stated. "What about you, Artie? What's your pleasure?"

"Arthur," England responded automatically. "Do you happen to have any hot tea?"

Abby _tsk_ed. "You Brits and your tea," she murmured. "I see you live up to the stereotype, huh? Does he say 'love' and 'pet', too? 'Bloody hell'?" She addressed this towards Alfred, laughing quietly. Her comments were more playful than ill-natured, and even in his sour mood, England couldn't find it in himself to be angry with her. "I'm afraid we only have iced. Could I interest you in some hot coffee instead?" she offered.

"Spare me," Arthur murmured, shuddering at the thought. "Water will be fine."

Abby left the two of them with their menus. She returned after a few moments with their drink orders, dropping them off before scurrying off to help another group. In spite of her laid-back attitude, she seemed to be busy, and her area of the restaurant was bustling.

England glanced through the menu, unsure of what exactly to get. It was actually rather extensive, serving both German fare as well as a few American favorites (England grimaced when he spied the word "Hamburger", mentally smacking himself and reminding himself to scold Alfred later).

Eventually, he decided on a favorite of his from time spent in Germany. Alfred called Abby over as she passed by, and smiled good-naturedly. "All righty, then, what can I get for you two?" she asked, looking at Arthur for his order first.

"I'll try the wiener schnitzel," Arthur replied, handing his menu to her primly. While it was horrible for you, Arthur decided that he had earned a bit of a treat. He usually ate very lightly. Then again, now that he thought about it, he had been eating more heavily (and more unhealthily) since his arrival in America. He decided then that he wouldn't allow his lover's eating habits to rub off on him any more than absolutely necessary, and perhaps take up a quick workout routine, as well.

"Good choice," she chirped. "And you, Al? The usual?" she commented.

"You know it!" America replied happily. "Gotta have my fix, after all."

"Of course." Abbey jotted down their orders, and sped off for the kitchen in that laid-back manner of hers, humming softly to herself. If England wasn't mistaken, it was a Disney song.

The two nations made small talk, for the most part, until their food came. America brushed England up briefly on Minnesota history and culture, though England had to admit, he wasn't sure he understood everything. He knew that there were a few things that America didn't know about the United Kingdom, as well, and that it went both ways. It would just be another small bump in their relationship—culture shock.

"Here you go, boys. Eat up." Abby set down their plates in front of their respective owners. England was pleasantly surprised when he didn't see a hamburger in front of his lover, but a rack of ribs (he truly hoped America didn't intend to eat the entire thing; he would get sick).

He looked down at his own plate, and felt a tad sick to his stomach himself. "Th-this…."

"Portion sizes are awesome, right?" America said, working on tearing apart his ribs. "The food up here is always big, Artie. The people up here eat hearty."

England was simply taken aback by the sheer size of his plate of food. There was absolutely no way he could be able to stomach this much food in an entire day, let alone a single meal.

Nevertheless, he dug in, and he was rather delighted to find that, despite the size of the food, it was delicious. All too often he found that, in American restaurants, size was favored over quality. This meal did not disappoint in either department.

They continued their aimless chatter for nearly an hour, and England found he was actually enjoying a conversation with America for once. He wasn't ruining it with childish jokes or stupid suggestions and questions, and it was actually rather pleasant.

England stopped eating perhaps halfway through his plate, effectively full. He wasn't sure if he could continue eating. The phrase "food coma", used by the American brothers to describe their feelings after their respective Thanksgiving holidays, came to mind. Unsurprisingly, America finished his entire meal, of course. England almost scoffed, but held back in the name of civility and politeness.

America paid (ignoring England's protested when he shrugged off the island nation's attempt to pay half), and then led the two of them back out to the car. "Where are you taking me now?" England questioned, feeling pleasantly full and slightly drowsy. German food always had that effect on him.

"We're heading out for some fun," America said cryptically, climbing into the cab. England climbed in next to him, giving him a grunt in reply rather than an actual response. He leaned heavily against the glass, barely even remembering to buckle himself in first. He drifted off into a light sleep quickly, aided by the gentle movement of the car and the copious amount of deep-fried veal and gravy in his stomach.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England woke with a start when America pulled the truck to a stop, slipping the shift to park. "We're here, Artie," he chirped, smiling widely.

England looked around himself, blinking slowly in confusion, still not entirely awake. All he could see was a large expanse of snow, flat and featureless, with trees off in the distance in any direction he went. How long had he been asleep? It didn't feel as if it had been very long. "Where are we, exactly?"

"This is where we're staying," America explained. "The Senator's friend ice fishes all the time here, but he's busy this weekend. So I got him to lend us his ice shack."

"…Ice fishing."

"Yeah!" America smiled widely, opening the cab door. Cold air rushed in, and England scrambled to throw his jacket on, glowering at his lover. "Let's get inside and turn the heater on before it gets too late." Forget that England had been perfectly comfortable with the heater inside the damn car.

"America, why the bloody hell are we _ice fishing_?" England questioned, his tone as icy as the air outside. He was making no movement to exit the cab himself.

America climbed out of the truck, laughing with good humor. "Because it's fun, Artie!" he replied, shaking his head. "Really, you're too funny. Trust me—you'll love it."

England sighed, knowing that there was no use reasoning with his idiot lover most of the time, and simply let it go. "Let's get this over with so we can go back to the hotel," he muttered.

"…What hotel?" England stared at America in shock. "We're staring here tonight, Artie. After all, the fishing is always best at night!" England could have throttled him.

Instead, he took a few deep breaths, and gently massaged his temples. This was going to be a long, cold night. He just knew it.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

After England began expertly tying the lines to hooks, Alfred took on the job of smashing up the ice that had accumulated in the hole so that they could actually get through to the water in order to put down their lines. Five minutes later, England finished tying the lures, and they both dropped their lines into the water—Alfred with excitement, and Arthur with a more restrained air, not truly interested in what America called "a completely awesome winter pass time". Arthur's idea of such a thing was sitting down in front of a fire (preferably against America's broad chest) with a good book.

Nearly two hours passed with nothing happening, other than England losing the feeling in his fingers and toes and having to warm them up next to the heater while America held his rod, and a few times when America had snagged himself on a log and excitedly reeled up to find that nothing was on his line (which always disappointed him greatly). Arthur repeatedly told him not to move the line so much if he wanted to catch something. He should now—he had practically fished for survival as a child. But the energetic American simply could not help himself.

England felt a slight tug on his line, and waited patiently until it became stronger, before the fish finally took a firm hold. England jerked it gently, knowing that he had set the hook, and began to reel it up calmly at a fast pace. "You get something, Artie?" America crowed, grabbing the fishing net from nearby excitedly.

"Mm." For now, England concentrated on reeling in the fish. A few moments later, he could see it just below the surface, wriggling against the hook caught in its mouth and trying to return to the depths of the water.

England waited until America had the net in position before he reeled it up the few extra inches that they needed to slip it into the net. "There," England said, feeling rather accomplished. "See where patience gets you, America?" he teased, smiling a tad. Throughout the rest of their fishing experience, England's mood brightened a tad—and he caught another four or five fish, simply stating that it was partly patience, and partly dumb luck. America, however, claimed that England was simply an excellent fisherman, and should pass some of his talent on to him.

Alfred never did catch a fish.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

"What on Earth is _that_?" England asked, covering his mouth and nose from a sudden stench. It had been about an hour since they had finished fishing, and England had been curled up on the air mattress, covered by three unzipped sleeping bags, reading a book. He'd left his boots on. It was damn cold in here, and he could simply pay to have he sleeping bags and air mattress cleaned later.

"Lutefisk…?"

"And you think my _blood pudding_ is bad!" England accused, staring at the American in horror.

America blinked. "Hey, look, blood pudding is just _wrong_. First off, it's pretty much a scab. Second, pudding should be chocolate and in a small covered cup in your fridge door."

"I wouldn't force that abomination on my worst of enemies! Not even _France!_"

"It isn't _that_ bad,"" America protested, eyebrows furrowing, as if he couldn't understand England's distaste for the food.

"That isn't food," England declared. "It's a weapon of mass destruction," he clarified, his eyes narrowing. "Those innocent Scandinavians—or so they would like us to think, until they force this… this _thing_ down our throats—"

America laughed heartily, but took another bite of his lye-soaked fish. "It's an acquired taste!"

"So you eat something that tastes like Vaseline enough times, until it begins to taste good?" England asked sarcastically.

"Hey, your tea is an acquired taste," America replied with a shrug, spooning another mouthful of lutefisk into his mouth.

"There is nothing wrong with tea!" England retorted instantly. "To begin with, it tastes just fine—and it's very good for you! Just because it isn't eighty percent sugar like your damn cola doesn't mean it doesn't taste good."

America shrugged, licking his lips and fingers of a few small leftovers of the odd delicacy. "Still, I dunno if leaf water is the thing for me."

"You prefer bean water," England responded dryly, shuddering at the thought. "Ugh. I don't know how you can stomach that stuff." As if to mock him, America reached over for his thermos, and took a long swig of what England was rather positive was black coffee. "America, it has to be eleven 'o'clock by now. Why are you drinking all of that caffeine? I'm not going to be responsible when you're wide awake for the rest of the night," England warned.

America smiled brightly. "That's all right, Artie. Besides—it's New Year's Eve. I want to stay awake."

England froze. "It's… It's what?" In all the hectic traveling, hopping from one flight to the next, traveling across America's country, England had forgotten the date.

"New Year's," America repeated with a smile.

England fell silent, leaning back against the pillow that had been propping him up in bed. New Year's. He could hardly believe he had forgotten. This was the first New Year's Eve that he had spent away from London since World War II. He glanced at Alfred's watch, and saw the time—11:39. London had celebrated its own New Year's hours before. "O-Oh."

America watched him carefully for a moment before frowning. "Is something wrong, babe?"

England didn't say anything immediately, but finally spoke up: "I was just thinking about London, I suppose," he admitted.

"Are you homesick?" America asked, after a quiet pause stretched between them.

"I suppose I am, just a little," England allowed, shrugging in the most nonchalant way he could manage.

America pursed his lip. "Come on." He stood, pulling his line from the water, and took England by the hand. England let out a quiet yelp of surprise as the younger nation dragged him out of bed, out of the shelter of the ice shack, and back into the pickup. England didn't even have time to grab his coat, and was only guarded from the winter wind by America's oversized sweatshirt—warm, but not against the kind of winds they were experiencing out in the middle of the lake. America half-tossed him into the passenger's seat, and ran around to the other side of the vehicle. How he was able to run on the slick ice of the frozen lake, England wasn't really sure. America climbed into the cab, started the engine, and took off in the direction of the nearby town.

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

Perhaps fifteen minutes later, America pulled into the town. There didn't seem to be anywhere to park, but America eventually found a place across the street from the restaurant they had eaten at earlier, pulling between two parked cars in a rather crooked manner. He made no move to straighten himself out.

America snapped the keys into the off position, ripped them out, and stepped out of the door, mindful again of the constant casing of ice surrounding the car. He slipped around the car, helped England down, and took off.

"America, slow down!" Arthur protested, nearly falling on the ice as he skidded after the other.

"I won't let you fall," America promised him. He kept up the quick pace, half dragging the island nation behind him as they passed a line of old brick buildings. Inside, England could occasionally spy families crouched around their TV sets, watching as the replayed image of the ball dropping in Times Square grew more exciting.

America stopped abruptly, turning into a small town square. There was ice here, too, and England would have fallen flat on his back if America had not caught him and held him securely against his chest. The younger nation held his former caretaker about the waist until he was satisfied that he could support himself. "It's no Big Ben, but…" America gestured to his left sheepishly.

England looked up to see a rather short clock tower. There was something vaguely similar about the clock faces, but all similarities to Big Ben died there; this smaller one would have been dwarfed by its larger cousin, and the bells were exposed rather than hidden away in the tower. England could barely make out a nativity scene on a ledge beneath the clock face, covered in ice and snow.

England felt a small smile tug at his lips. "It's nothing like Big Ben, you git."

America laughed nervously. "I know the Glockenspiel's not as impressive, but—"

"I appreciate the sentiment," England murmured. He smiled and wrapped his arms around America's neck. "Happy New Year," he murmured.

Above them, the tenants in the apartments began chanting the countdown: _Ten… Nine… Eight…_ America leaned his forehead against England's, his grip on his partner's waist tightening ever so slightly. "Happy New Year, Artie."

_Four… Three… Two…_

America pressed his lips to England's, smiling against his lover's mouth as the clock above them began to chime. "HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

The two nations pulled apart after a moment. England was frowning, making a face. "What's wrong?" America asked, blinking in apparent confusion.

"You taste like lutefisk."

~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~

England was panting and whimpering. It was cold, but America was doing more than enough to keep him warm at the moment. America had been stupid enough to not book them a night at the nearest hotel, so now they were stuck camping out in the thrice-damned ice shack. Granted, it was more isolated than a hotel room, and the two nations didn't have to worry so much about being quiet, but it was still rather irritating to try to avoid ice while you were in such a _delicate_ kind of situation.

"Al—!" England clutched his American lover desperately, feeling as if his heart was about to burst, both from its nervous pounding and pure elation.

America simply pressed butterfly kisses to England's eyelids, murmuring softly to him. "England… God, Arthur, I love you so much…"

The two nations lay together, England pleasantly exhausted and sated. America gently traced patterns into Arthur's side, smiling widely, nuzzling the spot between his neck and shoulder. "Arthur, I love you…" he whispered again—just one of the dozens of times he had said it that evening, and it still made England's heart skip a beat.

"I love you, too, you git," England murmured affectionately. "But you aren't getting a second round out of me tonight. It's too bloody cold," he complained.

America pouted, but nuzzled against his lover affectionately. "Fine." Moodily, he traced Arthur's newest tattoo—one he found absolutely adorable and hilarious at the same time. Apparently, Arthur had gotten drunk enough a year or so ago, right after the two of them had finally made things official, and had wandered into a tattoo parlor to get a permanent reminder that, in essence, marked him as America's.

The small American flag filled a neat one-by-two-inch rectangle on England's bum, right on the curve that America so adored fondling during their more "intimate" moments. "My Arthur," the American murmured gently, kissing England's temple after he was sure the other nation was fully asleep. He cuddled up to him again, slipped his arms around his most important person's waist, and held him against his chest as he drifted off to join him in a deep, contented sleep.


End file.
